He had made it through two decades
and that didn’t seem like a lot
he had cut open his face two times
requiring stitches
but you could barely notice
and once he was hit by a car
but he walks just fine now
and once he was in a war
but he feels just fine now
though his frame aches from
the stresses of modern
alienation and the newspapers
slap the concrete each morning
reminding him that tomorrow
will always come,
no matter.
She was eighteen years old
when they met and that was old
for her and her white skin
stretched and moaned with dents
and rust and dust and
on the inside every tear and rip
told stories of other humans
who had left their marks in leather
without meaning to and without
knowing that cigarette burns
will last forever.
She also bled oil on the driveway
and lurched in second gear
but her wheel in his hands
felt like the perfect fit.
I drove her home with her cackling
radio whispering at me and it all went
out the window like everything else
and I hungered for collision
because time can do so much
even when you’re in slow-motion
driving twenty miles an hour
letting the car crane its axle
into an embankment
not happy not sad
just bruised by the air bag
and no one notices you didn’t come
home last night but
the warm blood felt good
on your nose and on her wheel
as another unchained melody
fell apart.
